


Reignite

by RainySpringMorning



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years later, and she's all Brynjolf can think of.</p><p>Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and all associated characters belong to Bethesda Game Studios. The character Julia Gallanis was created by and belongs to TaillessGiraffe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reignite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaillessGiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaillessGiraffe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Burnt Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357330) by [TaillessGiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaillessGiraffe/pseuds/TaillessGiraffe). 



> This story is for TaillessGiraffe, the author of 'Burnt Out' and creator of the character, Julia Gallanis. It was partly inspired by Malukah’s Mass Effect tribute, 'Reignite'. The story is set precisely thirty years after 'Burnt Out'. Ever since I read TaillessGiraffe’s story, the inkling to write an accompaniment set some years afterwards, with a related title, blossomed into what I’ve presented here. Please take the time to read TaillessGiraffe’s original work, which is fantastic on its own and demands more of an audience than it’s been given. Thanks!

He was an old man now, stiff in the back from hunching down in the shadows for most of his life. His hands hurt most of the time, the joints gone stiff from gripping tiny lockpicks and living in the dampness of the sewer. A lot of thieves didn’t live to seventy; either they were shot down by an arrow outside their last mark’s house or rotted in prison, where the light of day didn’t reach them until they were a sagging, stinking corpse. A pleasant thought that was.

Easing himself onto the bench, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew the crumpled, yellowed paper that had made its home there for thirty years without pause. Unfolding it slowly, he was caught off guard by the sweet choking scent of ashes wafting from the aged parchment. His eyes traced the faded ink; he knew the letter by heart, where every tiny speck indicated where she let the quill rest a moment in thought, where every hasty curve suggested her hand had begun to cramp, where the smudges told him when she had begun to cry. He brushed a thumb over one of these such spots now, imagining that it formed a link to her, and that he might brush the tear from her cheek in the days since past before they dripped onto the letter.

“Brynjolf?”

Hastily folding the letter back into his pocket, he was careful to mask his face as he raised it. Karliah stood there, sheathed in a silhouette of black, her hair a long braid down one shoulder. Her fathomless indigo eyes searched Brynjolf’s face; though perhaps double his age twice over, she hadn’t aged a day since she’d returned to the Thieves Guild. Perhaps the crease between her brows was deeper, and maybe the lines around her mouth were softer, but a confidant light seemed to shine from within her. Karliah was where she belonged, side by side with her guild mates.

Brynjolf could honestly say he no longer felt the same way.

Once, he had considered himself married to the job. The Guild had been everything – his world, his life. He’d dedicated precious years to training young thieves hardly old enough for their first chin hairs; he’d acquired an enormous sum of wealth that could easily buy any nobleman off and see him fit with a mountainside castle if he wanted. It would be so simple, so easy – just the right measure of charm and the right words, and the deal would be sealed and his life would be set. The idea was so… seductive.

And yet, a small part of him recoiled. The pungent aroma of the bitter cistern water and the grating of the secret entrance in the wee hours before dawn were all he knew and loved; watching Niruin split his practice arrows down the center with every mastered shot, or young Rascal – his grandson – make even the best look like novices; listening to the latest brawl between Markus and some chap who thought he was all that and a sack of sweetrolls. This was his world, his everything, since he had been a boy. Was he ready to give it up for the life both Delvin and Vex had set out for? Brynjolf didn’t even know if the old codger was still alive – he’d not received a letter in five years, but then again, the Breton had always been sparse in his communications; Divines, he’d rarely spoke to his brother, and they were family.

“It’s nothing, lass,” he waved a hand in dismissal, leaning back against the hard edge of the bench table. It bit into his spine uncomfortably and he shifted slightly. Karliah joined him at his side, eyes searching the lines and contours of his ragged, tired face. A light scruff covered his cheeks and solid jawline, and the depressions his eyes sunk into were shadowed, sagging slightly. His mouth was set in a soured, firm line. Karliah’s eyes lifted; once, the thick hair had been a rich, deep hue of vermillion, streaked with copper and darker burgundy. It had blazed like fire when the sunlight caught it. Now, the loose strands were shot with silver and white, betraying how old he had become. Karliah saw both the man she had met thirty years ago and the man beside her now; he couldn’t say that he’d aged gracefully, not with the way his hands were permanently curled and the obvious hunch when he walked. He was in pain, suffering, but it wasn’t his body that ached, yearning for the bright spot of his youth that might bring him solace.

Karliah untied her braid and shook it loose, running her fingers through the forelock. A thin stroke of silver caught her eye, at her temple and cascading down and mingling with the rich umber locks. It reminded her of the time that had passed, and with it, Brynjolf’s gradual descent into sorrow, built from imminent loss and heartbreak – a heartbreak he had never admitted to himself until it was long after, when the bite of her disappearance grated through flesh and bone. The wound gaped now, consuming him as it festered, never repairing; he’d never allowed it to heal, because the cause of the injury still lashed from time to time – perhaps even from minute to minute – letting it scab over only to peel away and invite the pain anew.

He supressed it with drink, when there was enough to quench the memory of her. He slept too, when the comfort of darkness would embrace him whole and release him from the misery, even if for a time. But in his dreams, he was always in the graveyard, surrounded by purple nightshade and the scent of ashes. Like a poison released into his blood, she would return to him and rip his heart in two, leaving him feeling utterly helpless and pitifully alone. He hated to dream, but it was inevitable. She was there, bright and beautiful and burning like the sun. And when he awoke, she was gone, farther than he could bear.

“You know that’s not the truth, Brynjolf,” Karliah pressed. “For how long must you punish yourself for something that isn’t your fault? She left because she wanted to. She _needed_ to.”

“Aye, and I needed her.”

“I never took you to be a selfish man,” she said, taken aback. “Stubborn and vindictive, perhaps, but never selfish. Do you think that is what she would want? Would you place all of your burdens on her, with no thought for what she might be living with?” Karliah snapped her fingers in front of his face, regaining his attention. “If this is what you’ve become, then do you think Julia would want it?”

His fist came down on the bench next to his thigh, slamming off the wood. He was as rigid as a board, shaking with anger at Karliah’s accusations. “Do _not_ say her name to me,” he hissed as she straightened. His eyes flamed brightly, heated through with a sudden burst of life. Karliah almost smiled at the sight.

Brynjolf heaved off of the bench and towered above her, a towering build still capable of brawn. She stiffened her spine and met his glare head on without fear, amethyst moons challenging emerald shards. “Why today?” he demanded coarsely.

“I just-”

_“Karliah.”_

“I saw her.” Brynjolf jerked as though he had been bitten, and he paled ghastly white.

“When?” he whispered.

“I’ve already told you enough.”

“No.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back as she moved away. “Tell me.”

She let loose a long sigh, raking her fingers through her hair. “Yesterday. In the woods, on the eastern side of the city. It looked as though she were headed for the border,” she paused. “I don’t think she wanted to be seen.”

“Aye, I’d reckon.” For the first time in many years, he looked young. The colour had resumed in his cheeks and there was life in his stance. Karliah quickly understood that he meant to go after her, but as to whether or not that was a bright idea, she couldn’t say. She held up a restraining hand and said cautiously, “Brynjolf, let her be.”

“Why risk coming so close to the city?” he questioned, ignoring her. “She _knew_ anyone might see her-”

“Listen to yourself. You’re not thinking straight,” Karliah cut him off. “How many of the Guild is left from when J… when she was part of us? You, me, Niruin, and Ravyn. That’s it. There’s a small chance anyone might have seen her, let alone recognize her with her hood up.” She paused, sighing mutedly and rubbing the crease of her forehead. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you? I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“And yet you did, lass, and I thank you for it.” He leaned down, pressing a rough kiss to the top of her head, and strode past her through the leaking, groaning underworld of the cistern. He didn’t circle back at Karliah’s protest, and he didn’t pause as his guild mates turned to watch him leave in fascination at his near-jovial departure.

~*~

Rain drummed down on the rotted old wooden boards, leaving their surfaces hazardously slick and shiny. The smell of cistern water and Lake Honrich was potent and the crackle of thunder brought the air alive with a tension as heavy as the bleak clouds hanging over the city. The small boats docked along the canal bobbed threateningly, water spilling over their edges as the lake quaked in turmoil. No storm would stop Brynjolf and besides, a bit of rain had never hurt anyone. In fact, it added to the whole vibe of gnawing anticipation in his gut, despite tampering with the ease of his voyage – wherever it led to.

A quick but precarious gander to the above city and out the south gate left him with the unwarranted hike around the city wall to the eastern side, which hadn’t been maintained in over forty years. The route had been quickly disbanded by travellers and thieves alike, all too concerned over lurking vampires or something of the like after the vampire menace. The fear of it had instilled in the heart of the citizens, and remained even today. A new generation of children and their children had grown up with the terrible stories of the bloodsuckers’ attacks and the valiant stand by the opposing Dawnguard, and no dark alleys were traversed by oneself any longer.

Brynjolf had no such qualms, although he would have made a very disreputable enemy for a vampire if it decided to come along on today, of all days. Working his way through the untamed undergrowth, he found it easier to step over the larger bushes, although his ailing back thought much differently. Sweating from overexertion on the other side and throbbing in the joints, he reasoned with himself that it would have been difficult for any person, refusing to let age be the cause for any of it. Rubbing his bad knee gingerly and briefly wishing that he hadn’t knelt on it as often as he’d done in his youth, he worked his way to the road and fell into a steady, if limping, pace due east and away from the city, hopefully in the direction Karliah had seen Julia go.

He began to wonder what their meeting after all of these years would be like. Would he recognize her? The last he’d seen of her was a shaved head under a drawn hood and shadowed eyes. Young and in her prime then, she would be now in her fifties. The words of their last confrontation rung in the back of his memory unpleasantly and he dismissed them; that had been decades before, and they wouldn’t hold now. They had both changed, though for better or worse he couldn’t actually say. His life had steadily declined and habits had set in, his quirks magnified as the months ticked by into years. He imagined her face, coarsely beautiful and incredibly innocent, but the eyes full of a darkness she had embraced, if not willingly. The severing bite of their separation seemed to come alive the closer he came to the border, as though she were materializing from smoke, or as though he were gradually stepping backwards in time, to a point most sore and best left forgotten, but not.

Crossing the bridge, he rested at the one end, listening to the gurgling rush of the small creek flowing out from the waterfall. Through the trees he glimpsed Black-Briar Manor, overgrown by vine and cloaked by towering ash trees, cradled and unmaintained ever since Maven Black-Briar’s passing only a few years ago. The old crone had kicked the bucket and died in her bed, surrounded by her wealth and her reputation, the latter not being so good but well-known. Better yet had been her funeral, which Brynjolf had attended; a marvelous affair of petty words and exaggerated tears, it had been difficult to take the occasion seriously. The bitch was dead and the Guild was free from her clutch, which had tightened further and further over the years as her paranoia about rivals grew and her mind became less. The Guild had lost a handful of good, well-built thieves because of her foolish concerns and pricey demands, something he had never found in his ability to forgive. Brynjolf could only feel relief at her passing; there was no more destruction left in her wake, but he could admit there was some affection in her memory. At the height of her power, she had brought a lot to the Guild and stood by them when things had gotten tough, reaching points Brynjolf had never thought they’d see an end to. Pushing away from the bridge, he figured he could spare an hour and check out the old haunt and see what more than dust had been left behind.

Gathering his breath outside of the front door, he fumbled in his pocket for a lockpick. It slipped from his grasp and he cursed quietly, bending to retrieve it. As his fingers struggled to find a hold on the thin slivers of metal, he heard a noise behind him. Lifting his head, he spotted a sorrel horse ground tied by the stables; it blew through its slender nose at him and resumed grazing on the sparse vegetation, its hoof scattering small pebbles with a light clacking sound. On its back was a travel pack and a large leather bag off one side, and its gear was in good condition, despite faded cracks from time and usage.

Contemplating the scenario, Brynjolf stepped away from the front door and made his way around to the side, boots crunching louder than he wished they would. Lifting the large rock within the prickly gorse bush, he tugged the key loose from the small roots grown about it and brushed off the dirt, pushing it into the lock and turning it with a soft click. Returning the key to its place, he let the door swing open slowly, lighting up the dim basement with pale gray light. The air smelled damp and full of dust, and he shut the door behind himself, breathing shallowly as he listened.

The thump of feet in soft-soled boots, made for keeping a low profile in places their wearer wasn’t welcome, sounded quite suddenly. Unsheathing his dagger, Brynjolf slipped into the storage room and up the flight of stairs, remembering the lodge’s layout as he moved through it, and stopped in the entry hall, eyes darting and ears straining. He heard a muted sneeze and a responsive mutter of annoyance, and a scraping sound that reminded him of a poker moving burning logs. There was a grating of a soup ladle stirring and more footsteps. Brynjolf began to wonder if the lodge was in fact occupied and started to head back down the stairs, letting whomever it was get back to their lunch preparations.

 _Creeeaaakkkk._ The floorboard groaned audibly and raised the hair on the back of his neck, and the footsteps halted mid-step. The softest swish of an unsheathed weapon told Brynjolf they were suitably armed and hostile, and he swung around, intending to rush down the stairs and escape the lodge before they spotted him. His old thief instincts were blazing in his gut, but he hadn’t taken a single step when the blade went whirring past his ear. Looking up at the tiny dagger, which had imbedded itself deep in the post, Brynjolf turned with a smirk on his lips and a comment at the ready.

Instead, his chest tightened in shock to find Julia regarding him with a look of apprehensive bewilderment. They stared at each other in muted silence, the thrumming of the rain on the roof above the only sound. Neither of them could speak. For a moment, Brynjolf could have believed he was standing in that graveyard again, rain pouring down in sheets on his shoulders, staring into the lonely and terrified eyes of the young woman, the scent of ashes thick in his nostrils.

“Why are you here?” Her voice was richer, steeped by age and roughened around the edges, but the sound of it brought him vividly back to the present. Her hair was shot with silver, all drawn back into a loose braid, several strands around her cheeks. Light wrinkles framed her mouth and a deep crease was between her brows, also flecked with the occasional silver strand that sparkled as they gathered over her fathomless eyes. Her eyes were the same, the corners tapered by crow’s feet and lighter in a dark, lonesome sort of way. Reality seemed an illusion and he took a careless step forward, to which Julia reacted volatilely, jerking back and shattering the illusion. Brynjolf swallowed, the initial shock breaking open like the delicate shell of an egg and he almost winced as he breathed; it only occurred to him now that he hadn’t taken a single breath since he’d lightened his eyes on her.

“Cat got your tongue?” Julia asked without humour. Somehow, Brynjolf began to realize with dawning suspicion, she didn’t seem at all as fazed as he was upon seeing him. The growing thought that perhaps thirty years of longing and misery had been on his behalf, and his alone. He felt embarrassed, even a bit ashamed, of his wildly inaccurate expectations. What had he been thinking their reunion would be? Could it even be called that? They weren’t lovers – never had been. They were former associates, acquaintances broaching on friendship, a friendship that had died the day Julia coerced him into letting her leave because of their trivial differences and her gruesome awakening.

Julia shifted her weight and idly scratched at her temple, still regarding Brynjolf with a look of displeased indifference. Her impatience was broadening and she took a deep breath, as though gathering the last of her tolerance, and seized the door handle, obviously intending to send him on his merry way. Words refused to come so he acted; reaching up, he slammed the door shut and took a step forward, one that had her back up against the aged wood and he towering over her. A flash of alarm seemed to mingle in the depths of that penetrating gaze and he wheeled away, bristling with renewed irritation.

“Oh, come on, Bryn!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands out. “What did you think it would be? Did you really wait for thirty years, to see if I would come back?”

“Aye,” he answered stiffly, swinging around, face contorted into anger. “Aye, I thought a lot of things. Some of which weren’t very nice at all. Some of which never happened.”

“You should have forgotten me.”

“Aye, as you clearly have,” he threw back.

“Yeah,” she responded tersely. “Yeah, I did put you behind. Ten years I went without fretting. Ten years I _lived_.”

“You call _murder_ living?”

“If living means making coin to pay for a roof over your head and defend your back, then sure, I think it is.” She paused to rub her nose with vigor at the stirred dust in the air, and she suddenly laughed. “And all of this is coming from a rat living in a sewer. The audacity! How’s life been without Frey digging into your funds and plotting behind your back?”

“Better than listening to some shrivelled up crone,” he retorted bitterly. “How’s _that_ working out for you, lass?”

She jerked as he somehow found a sore spot. Shaking her head, she regarded him with a stare that Brynjolf read like an open book. He suddenly recalled her, slick with muck and grime, wearing patchy old leathers and hair crawling with an infestation of unpleasantness. She really wasn’t any different – stubborn and impudent, the abrasive child with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and the stout young heart in her steel core. There was no difference, in all of these years. Julia seemed to read this realization as it dawned in his mind and she looked away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said softly. “I’m not the same girl you couldn’t fix.”

“Then why are you crying?’

Julia startled, swiping at her cheeks in surprise. Seeing the wetness on her fingertips, she stared in fixed fascination for several long moments. Brynjolf watched her silently; either he was imagining it, or was the smell of ashes getting stronger? Julia swept past him, disrupting the air and leaving the smell burning stronger, and Brynjolf wearily followed, his knees throbbing as they registered his venture, on foot, all the way out to the lodge. Into the dining room he wandered and occupied the first chair nearest to him, hardly able to stand any longer. His hand immediately went to his bad knee, massaging the muscle and bone and willing the throb to dissipate. Julia’s back was to him, bent over the cooking pot in veiled concentration, though her stance clearly said she was aware of his lingering gaze.

“I left the Brotherhood nineteen years ago,” she finally spoke. Pouring some of the soup into a bowl with one-handed efficiency, she brought it to Brynjolf and plunked a spoon into its depths. He peered at it a little longer than necessary, wondering if the pale lumps of mushroom were safely edible. Julia scraped together her own bowl and tossed in an accompaniment of bread, the half a loaf hastily torn and slightly on the stale side.

Brynjolf wasn’t sure how to broach _the_ subject but he did. “Was it enough to… satisfy you?”

“For a time,” Julia said between rushed bites. She seemed ravenous as a wolf, the way she packed down the bread soaked in broth almost as thick as gravy. “I can’t say it was the best eleven years of my life, but it was something and gave me purpose.”

“You could have joined the Greybeards,” Brynjolf tried to pass it off as a joke but Julia, much to his surprise, said, “I did.”

A year after leaving the Brotherhood, Julia had subjected herself to the monstrously audacious hike up the face of the Throat of the World, at last reaching the peak and the imposing fortress of High Hrothgar, where she sought seclusion… as well as answers. While the Greybeards couldn’t assist her in her endeavour, their winged leader could and did willingly.

“Paarthurnax told me that my body and soul were at odds,” she concluded. “I am essentially a dragon, with the mortal form of an Imperial. I’m not compatible with my soul.” She shrugged and swallowed the last of her bread, gulping it hungrily. “Dragons have an instinctive desire for domination and bloodshed. So I had a friend partially soul trap me.”

Brynjolf choked mid-swallow. Julia set her bowl aside and rose swiftly, pounding him on the back until he could breathe. She was trying not to smile as she brought him water and reseated herself, leaning back and resting her hands in her lap. Once he had composed himself, Brynjolf wiped his watery eyes and regarded her dubiously. “Soul trap?”

“If you were told you were dying but that there was a cure, wouldn’t you risk everything for that opportunity?” Julia demanded.

“Aye, well. You have a point. I suppose I would,” he then fit in a quick smile. “It depends on what the price is to for the cure. What did you pay, for something like that?”

“Half of my soul, and all of my profits made from my time with the Brotherhood,” she answered smoothly. “Falion specialized in other sorts of necromancy, and my, ah… _problem_ took some fine tuning before we could test it.”

“What kind of profits are we talking about here, lass?”

“Why? Is my wealth of such importance to you?” she raised a brow, but answered regardless. “Thirty-thousand Septims.”

Brynjolf whistled, leaning back in his chair, unable to contain his mystified expression. Julia, to his surprise, laughed. It was a beautiful sound, honest and unguarded. “Yeah, that’s exactly how I reacted when the deal was struck.”

“At least you didn’t sell your soul to some Daedra.”

“I considered it. Clavicus Vile was in business,” she paused before taking a drink, offering an achingly familiar, wry little smile. “Ah, didn’t expect that one, did you? Neither did he, when the especially-sought-after Dragonborn came along, looking to give up her soul.”

Brynjolf had to let that one sink in for a minute. He swirled the water in the bottom of the cup, watching it make a tiny whirlpool. Julia had quieted as well, clearly wondering what he thought of her actually considering selling her soul to a bloody _Daedra_. Brynjolf realized that if he too so happened to be Dragonborn, something he couldn’t fathom the importance of from his own meager viewpoint, he might as well consider the same thing.

“How were you soul trapped and still alive?” he finally asked.

“Partially,” Julia corrected. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch, and causally tossed it to him. Loosening the string on it, Brynjolf withdrew a black soul gem. It seemed to glow with an unworldly bluish light. If he squinted, he could swear that he saw something moving inside of it, a bit like wind if it had a sort of translucent tangibility.

“Is that…?” he began delicately. In his peripheral vision, Julia was nodding her head. Brynjolf closed his hand around the gem; he was literally sitting there with her soul in his hands and, suddenly, the world seemed so fragile and precious.

“I can’t say it didn’t hurt,” Julia wringed her hands together with some awkwardness. “But ever since I had that done, I’ve felt so free. Bryn, you wouldn’t believe how free I feel without the weight of that thing inside me.” Her eyes seemed to mist a bit and she looked away and down at the floor. “I can sleep without being afraid to dream.”

As delighted as Brynjolf was for her, he couldn’t help the small jab of envy. His nights were spent awake, staring at the ceiling of the cistern, wondering if his every night would be spent lying in melancholy or contemplating the remnants of days gone by. Julia claimed to have found a way to escape the worst of her woes but Brynjolf hadn’t. He had lived with them for thirty years. Did that make her a coward, to have looked for the easy way? But was it the easy way, to rip a piece of herself out and live with whatever consequences followed? Brynjolf knew he was judging the Imperial – he was judging the entirety of the situation in all its glorified madness. He had every right to judge, considering what he had suffered; but then again, had he done anything about it? Had he made no other effort than to let loss rule his heart?

Julia was staring at him.

Suddenly self-conscious, he rubbed a hand through his still-damp hair and across the back of his neck. “So, about this gem…”

“Keep it.” Julia didn’t bat an eye. She wasn’t humouring him. Brynjolf looked down at the gem in his hand, a solid reassurance that it was still there, a palpable piece of Julia’s soul. He looked back up, all of the questions on the tip of his tongue, but Julia raised a finger to her lips. “Just keep it, Bryn.”

“Is this your way of saying your soul is mine?” He intended for it to be a light-hearted joke, but his voice chose that exact moment to deepen and trim itself with seriousness. The smile on Julia’s face died as quickly as it had begun and was replaced by something more lupine. This too vanished abruptly as she neatly recomposed herself, banishing all traces of whatever it was that had crept into her mind.

Brynjolf hadn’t forgotten the other half of that last conversation between them, the more sensitive half that neither of them could admit to. As he had told himself a thousand times, his commitment was to the Guild and his life as a thief. There was room for no more than that, and there was no space in Julia’s life either. It was something they had forgotten on equal footing… until now.

“Ah, I didn’t mean it that way,” Brynjolf said uneasily, feigning amusement. “I meant…”

“I know what you meant.” Julia’s gaze was perfectly unwavering but nothing betrayed her thoughts. She had learned to better hide her mind, and the concealment trick was fooling Brynjolf for the first time in his career. Something within him clawed in defiance and he slipped the soul gem back into its pouch, holding it out to Julia. If keeping it meant such as he thought, then he didn’t want it. The need to separate himself from such obligation nagged and needled in places he couldn’t let be accessed.

“Keep it,” she repeated. “I wanted to give it to you for a long time, anyway.”

“Aye?” Again, she had him off guard. It seemed to have become her specialized trick. He almost feared what was next. Seeking the best course of action, he changed the subject. “After you saw the Greybeards and Par… the dragon. What did you do then?”

“I wandered,” she began, casually following his lead. “I considered a lot of different things. I had a new life, after all, so I wanted to start fresh. I took a ship out to Solstheim and did some work out there, mostly reopening the mines. Found this ancient barrow under the entire place…”

And so they talked. Julia detailed her exploration of Solstheim and subsequent visitation to Morrowind with a master wizard named Neloth. Brynjolf expressed his fascination in the description of the giant mushroom towers and the scary sounding ash creatures, to which Julia explained many theories of, some of which were local and others were broader. He served more soup between them and they cracked open some of the old mead, trying some of the wines tucked away though none were very good. It was all very comforting – good food and light discussion between old friends gathering at old threads. The hours ticked by and the rains came and went, the storm passing overhead and growing fresh again. Brynjolf rambled on for a time about the Guild and mentioned Maven’s death, and the ensuing search for new contacts in the local area to support the Guild. Julia remained politely distant, though thoroughly absorbed and cheerful, until Brynjolf mentioned Delvin.

“…and the old codger hasn’t sent me back a letter in some years. I wonder what became of him. Who knows? He might have passed in his sleep in the bed of a fair, buxom maiden,” Brynjolf was in the middle of saying. Julia’s calm expression had changed slightly; her smile seemed a little too forced and her eyes couldn’t quite settle. “I didn’t mean to upset you, lass. I know you were fond of him.”

“Brynjolf.” The way she said it made him alarmed. “I… I need you to know something.”

“Anything, lass.”

“It’s about Delvin and… and why he hasn’t answered you.” Julia let out an explosive breath, hands tight around her thighs. “You see… I saw him a few years ago. Maybe about five, now.”

Brynjolf raised a brow, gesturing for her to continue, though he was still suspicious of her sudden apprehensiveness.

“The Dark Brotherhood…” she began and it was all he needed to hear. He was up and out of the chair, staggering slightly as his body protested at the unexpectedness of movement. He sunk his hands into his hair, shaking his head as Julia raised her voice, trying to make herself heard, but his protests rang from his lips. No, he couldn’t hear it. He wouldn’t! To hear that it had been Julia… _Julia_ of all people in the world! A light hand rested on his shoulder and he swung, eyes blurring with tears. She was behind him, pale with rueful grief. “Bryn, I didn’t want to,” she said pitifully.

“You said that you left them _nineteen_ years ago, Juls!” Brynjolf snapped. “So how is it that Delvin ended up dead only five years ago if you weren’t with them?”

“I… I went back. No, listen!” she grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Please hear me out. I arrived in Dawnstar and they were waiting. I told them I was done with their contracts, the whole damn thing, but they reminded me…” she broke off and shook her head. “No, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that they would have blackmailed me into worse, more _horrible_ things if I didn’t take the contract. So I looked it over and – oh gods, they told me they would kill me if I didn’t finish the job. I hadn’t done another contract…” Again she broke off, composing herself desperately. “Bryn, I had to choose. They made me _choose_. I thought I could run, but then I found Delvin.”

“Very _convenient_ that you “ran into him” when you were trying to avoid him,” Brynjolf commented coldly.

“He was dying. Bryn, he was already on deaths doorstep,” Julia’s mouth wobbled. “I told him everything. He knew.”

“Burden him with your sad story then kill him? How appropriate for the likes of you,” he answered without remorse.

Julia let go of his arm and stepped back, clearly wanting to argue it, but pushed past it to finish her account of what had happened with Delvin. “I told him what the Dark Brotherhood wanted of me, and about the contracts I hadn’t done. He asked me if he could do anything for me but… no, it was something I could do for him instead.” Julia raised her head but her eyes were glazed, lost in the memories. “Bryn, if you saw him and heard him plead the way he did… you would have done it. It was the k-kindest t-thing…” she fumbled and broke off.

Brynjolf was wordless. Unable to meet Julia’s eye, and not quite able to stand, he returned to his chair and sank down with a heavy sigh. “I buried him outside of his home. I wrote an obituary and everything… got someone to maintain the property and protect his wealth until it can reach family. It’s the least I could do.”

“You had no right-”

“He _gave me_ the right!” Julia cried. “I didn’t want it, but he was ailing. I knew his life was forfeit.”

“Oh, so you’re going to pass it off as you sped him along, are you?” Brynjolf scoffed, glaring up at her. “If you think your sad little story will make murdering my friend any better, you’re wrong, lass.”

“Murder?” she echoed. “Delvin _asked_ me to end his life. I didn’t seek him out purposefully, if that’s what you think!”

“It was a Dark Brotherhood contract, Juls! You just admitted-”

“By all I hold sacred, would you shut up?” Julia shrieked, pounding a fist on her thigh. “They threatened me with a completely different contract. I couldn’t do it, no matter what they said. So I ran. I went to Solstheim to escape them and spent years fleeing the Morag Tong because of it!” Brynjolf gaped, not quite understanding, even as Julia’s words penetrated his ears. He was still sunk in the grief of Delvin’s death. “You aren’t listening to me. The Dark Brotherhood-”

“Had a contract they were holding you against – yes, yes,” he twisted around to see her look of utter besiegement. “But you still made Delvin your last assignment because you chickened-”

“ _Stop it!_ ” Julia screamed. “Delvin wasn’t the assignment – _you_ were!”

A hush fell over them. Julia’s legs gave out and she collapsed, sinking to the floor and wrapping her arms around her head, unable to contain her sobs. Brynjolf was mesmerized, held in place by a sick sort of feeling. The churning waves in his stomach seemed to whisper tauntingly, daring him to speak, but he was all to certain that he would lose his nerve. Closing his eyes to the world, he struggled to comprehend the scenario: Julia had been contracted to kill him, nineteen years ago, and she fled to save him.

Everything had changed, turning on the back of a coin and leaving him flabbergasted. Brynjolf was often a hard man to take by surprise, but this… this was beyond him.

He gradually became conscious of the fact that hadn’t been the only one suffering. Thirty years apart, they had been tied together closer than before, united by an invisible thread. Julia had done her part to protect him, fleeing Tamriel for some desolate island off in the middle of the sea – but what had he done? What had he done for her, was the better question.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he managed after a time. “I didn’t… I…”

“It’s fine,” Julia answered, wiping her face with the edge of her sleeve before raising her head. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks sallow, speckled with red. A thin snail trail marked her upper lip. She looked so perfectly reliant, in an innocent, childlike sort of way – that his heart warmed at the sight. She could flay him to the bone with her bare hands if she wanted, in that moment, and he wouldn’t mind.

“Were you headed for Morrowind?” he asked after a longer time.

“I was considering it. Neloth had helped me build the foundation of a life out there, under the wing of House Telvanni. I have a home, and I could easily get into the business of assassinating rival nobles… with a bit of thievery on the side.” She glanced up, mouth quirking. “And what about you? Shouldn’t an old cat like yourself think about a retirement plan?”

“Oh, aye. I’ve thought about that,” Brynjolf smiled. “I’ve kept my eye on a place in the mountains. Secluded, quiet. No one but me and the birds.”

“Do it,” Julia urged. “The Dark Brotherhood never forgets a contract. I’m keeping my head low, trying to stay out of their radar. You should do the same. Spend the next thirty-odd years without worrying about them in your footsteps.”

“I’d rather spend thirty years running with you, lass.” The confidence in which he said the words vanished the moment they crossed his lips and he felt Julia stiffen. He saw her cheeks redden. Wishing with all of the world that he could take his words back, he reached for the dignity that couldn’t be found and instead floundered in silence, waiting for the dam to break.

“You’re an old man, Bryn,” she finally said. “You couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t force you to live the way I have, always on the run.”

“Karliah managed it for twenty-five years, and she’s several times my age,” he joked. Julia cracked a small smile. She took Brynjolf’s hand in hers; it was roughed around the edges but soft and feminine, the hand that belonged to a thief. It looked so small in Brynjolf’s creased and beginning to knot in the joints, the skin leathery and tough, fingers edged with calluses. Julia stared at it for a long time, tracing the deep lines with her thumb.

“I don’t want you to come with me,” she at last confided. “And I don’t want to argue it,” she added hastily, as though feeling the complaint rising automatically in Brynjolf’s throat. “There isn’t time to argue.” She rose and he made to follow, but his legs stubbornly protested. Julia had moved out of sight, and he felt a prickle of panic. Was this all the Gods were giving him? Thirty years of hope only to be crushed? It was cruel, _too_ cruel. He managed to swing one leg around, a protest burning in his mouth.

But he was too late.

“Goodbye, Bryn.” Something heavy clunked off the back of his skull and he staggered, vision blurring to a pinpoint as the ground lifted up to meet him. The touch of a butterfly pressed against his forehead with a cool rush of breath, and the smell of ashes filled his nostrils as the blanket of darkness seized him and yanked him under.

~*~

Brynjolf stirred awake. He was slumped on a bed, as though he hadn’t lain down there himself, but had instead been placed there by someone with lesser strength. He sat up, head spinning, and rubbed the sore patch on his scalp. Blearily looking around, he spotted a folded sheet of paper on the table next to him, next to which a small velvet pouch rested, folded over upon itself on the black prism left within. Brynjolf reached for the paper, feeling a vivid recollection of déjà vu, and slowly unfolded it in anticipated caution to read its contents:

 

_Brynjolf;_

_The past repeats itself unwillingly at times, but this is one past I must reawaken for the sake of your life._

_I won’t let you follow me. To do so would mean your death. I can’t have another drop of blood on my hands that belongs to someone I love._

_Keep me in your memory but let me run. Don’t wait for me – I’m not coming back to you. As for the gem… keep me close to your heart. That way, I know I can protect you, even if I’m no longer there._

_Go to the mountains. Never look back. Forget me, release me. Let me die in your heart._

_Eternally yours,_

_Julia Gallanis_

Flipping the page over, his eyes were assaulted with the neat print of an assassination contract. His name was scrawled on a drawn line indicating him as the target, and Julia’s was beneath as the one to deliver the execution. He was immensely relived that he was sitting, otherwise he might have fallen. He read Julia’s final words to him a few more times, but no clues made themselves available. Setting the note aside, he picked up the velvet pouch and tipped the black soul gem into his palm. It was heavy – the weight of a soul is a heavy burden, he pondered – and curled his fingers around it lightly. Then, he tucked it into his shirt pocket beneath his guild jacket, feeling its solid presence through the rough spun cotton.

Folding the note, he stowed it away and got to his feet, slowly making his way to the basement and out around the front of the property. The rain had cleared and the muddy tracks of the sorrel horse’s hooves led down the path and turned onto the road, headed for Morrowind’s southern border. He hesitated for a second, considering the impossible, but Julia’s warning rang in his ears: _You couldn’t keep up_. She was right – _why_ did she have to be right? But it was for the better. Somehow, she had found empathy and common sense, more so than Brynjolf ever would.

The gem seemed to pulse against his chest, as though in agreement. He chuckled, wondering if it were indeed linked to her somehow. Cheered by the thought, he turned his back on Morrowind and began up the road, crossing the bridge and listening to the first of the birds warbling as the sun set, striking the trees with brilliant gold and red.

Thirty years had reunited them and Brynjolf would forever cherish those precious moments as they laid bare their souls and opened their hearts. Julia was strong, stronger than him, and he had all the confidence in the world that she would continue along the path she had carved without error. He, on the other hand, felt the calm certainty that he could let go of everything that reminded him of her without fear of breaking.

The wisps of an old tavern song fluttered across his mind and he whistled to its tune, free in spirit, reignited from the ashes she had left behind.


End file.
